


Stalemate

by Silex



Category: Shadowscapes Tarot
Genre: Chess, Dark Fantasy, Flash Fic, Games, Gen, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:13:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21892711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silex/pseuds/Silex
Summary: They play their game as they always have, two lonely creatures. This way, for a time, they can be alone together.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Stalemate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ruis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruis/gifts).



Each month, in the silent grove, they met for their game, he a half-wild thing, raised as much by the animals and spirits of the forest as by humans, she a being of light and perception, but of her own choosing.

Infinitely patient, she taught him to play for her own amusement, knowing that he would try again and again, even after growing wise to her tricks.

A blot of blackness peels away from the night sky and he lands before her.

This is new, the wings, and she asks with a smile where they came from.

The blade he had carried previously is gone and he demurs with a furtive smile, believing that she already knows.

When she persists he spins a story of a wager, half lie, half bravado, strung together with the finest threads of truth, which if she were to pick at, the whole would fall apart in shambles.

She lets him weave the story though, for it pleases her to listen.

On lonely nights like this a companion is a rare and cherished thing.

Even one who spins such lovely lies and then wears them as an exquisite mask.

She could strip the mask from his face if she wished to, see the sweet faced, falsely innocent youth behind it. He believes his mask to conceal, but she knows the truth. In wearing it he shows his true nature, a flighty thing, chasing after anything that gleams.

And what gleams more brightly than she?

Oh if he only knew the truth of it, why despite her grandeur, only he endures her company.

He scratches the game board on the ground with the tip of his finger.

In past games he used the sword, now conspicuous in its absence.

There’s a story there as well, one she could draw out of him if she desired.

Instead she smiles at his misguided belief.

To think that his creating the board makes a difference when she creates the game.

He knows the rules of course, by route memorization, so she cannot fool him.

Just as he believes that by bringing his own pieces, an ever changing assortment of trinkets that he names as he sets down.

The king is a battered tin thimble.

The queen a brilliant gold ring.

Two stones for the rooks, one soft and worn grey, the other flecked many colors and shimmering sharply.

The knights are bone, one gnawed and worn, the other lovely scrimshaw.

It smells of the sea and fills her with longing.

The bishops, well, the less said of them the better. There’s anger in that choice this night.

A row of coins, all different for the pawns, which he also gives names to as though it matters.

They have the names of people, always the same.

Even if what represents them differs.

Berthold is reckless, most often the first to fall, but on occasion making a decisive move that makes her rethink her strategy. This time he’s an old coin, face worn water smooth.

Catherine is prudent, rarely moving until necessary. She does nothing of import and can easily be ignored. Her coin is melodic silver, carefully polished.

Robert is a tricky one, once nearly bringing victory. Tonight he’s copper all in verdigris as though to hide.

And so on and so forth they’re set out.

She only knows the names of them from his muttering under his breath when they do well or poorly, as though it’s the pieces and not the player.

Her pieces are always the same, perfect and glimmering, silvery mist given solid forms.

The squares of the board are unlabeled, the colors of the pieces irrelevant.

They each know what each can do and tracking such small things is important.

As such it’s agreed that this night hers is the first turn, despite the same being true of their last game.

He watches her, as though trying to divine something from the path of a single pawn.

Hers are uniform and unnamed, though she knows that he believes otherwise. Thinking that it’s a secret carefully kept drives him to madness and she smiled as he ponders his move.

It will be Berthold.

It’s always Berthold.

Silvery Catherine carefully advances.

He smiles at her, face pale, untouched by the shadow of his mask.

She stares at the pawn, considering more than just her next move, hardly important for she knows he plays as he lives, hurried and frantic. His goal always remains the same, shortsighted, to take as many pieces of hers quickly as he can, hiding them away in the pouch he carries his trinkets in.

What happens to those pieces after their games is unknown to her.

She never sees them again, having to create them anew each month.

Does he think it matters? They are nothing, made of nothing. After she wins those he has not taken return to nothing.

She lets him keep the fallen, for it seems to matter.

Trophies of a battle lost, like the carrion bird he seeks to emulate.

She makes her next move, not with any goal in mind, just to see what path his response will take.

Always he suspects some trick, as though the board might shift if he looks at it wrong, or a piece he ignores will slink away to a new home.

His suspicions are only true half of the time, that she lays traps for him. The rest he makes for himself, a carefully constructed, but obvious ploy.

Inevitably, his bait becomes her victory.

She sees in the long term, guides him to make moves.

He acts in haste, seeking an easy victory that cannot be found.

Of all their games together, and there have been many over the unending years, he has never won.

There have been times he’s come close, but victory remains elusive.

Tonight though, tonight she plays carelessly in the grandest trick of all.

If he wins it will be by her grace and bitter for it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you.
> 
> The art for the Shadowscapes Tarot is hauntingly beautiful and works so well as a prompt for a fic. I was so happy to see that you'd asked for it in this exchange.


End file.
